Stitches
by Vegas9
Summary: Preseries. Jack has always cared entirely too much about his public image, which is how Anne occasionally finds herself his doctor when his pride gets the better of him. She's not particularly fond of it.


"For someone with such a smart mouth you sure are dumb sometimes," Anne grumbled, fingers deftly working the curved needle through torn skin in tiny – if not straight – stitches.

"I'm sorry?" Jack winced as she tugged at the sutures a bit too tightly.

"You should'a let the doctor do this hours ago," she pressed her lips together in a grim line, eyes flicking from her work to the blood-soaked clothing and rags that even in their ruined state were folded and placed neatly on a wooden chair. There were a lot of things she was never going to understand, the fact that Jack would still fold bloody clothes with a gash the length of her hand on his chest was one of them.

"It didn't seem bad enough to warrant looking for him," Jack groused. "Besides, our fine ship's doctor hasn't so much as washed his hands in weeks," he gasped as she started stitching again.

Anne glared up at him, fingers pressing around the wound harder than necessary out of spite. It earned her a choked hiss of pain and a measure of satisfaction. She couldn't fucking believe him. He could say what he wanted about the doctor and washing but she knew it had been about saving face. His damned fixation on his reputation was going to be the death of him one day.

"If you saw me with the same injury, you'd have a fucking fit if I di'nt have it seen to immediately," With that thought she frowned and stopped stitching again. She gave him a hard look, gaze going from the wound to his face and back again several times as she tried to piece it together and kept coming up empty. The silence stretched on long enough for her to feel the ponderous rock of the ship beneath her feet. "How'd you even manage this anyway?" she asked.

"Ah, well," his face coloured and he tried to buy himself a moment by picking up the bottle of rum next to him and taking a swig of it. "I was making my way down here anyway and," he shrugged, glaring at the bottle as if it had done him a personal wrong. "when we hit that swell I wound up pitched down the stairs," he finally admitted, pointedly not looking at her.

Anne tried, she really did, but the smirk tugged up at the corner of her lips and her shoulders twitched. Half a minute later she had lost the battle entirely and a bark of laughter escaped her.

"Fell on your sword then?" she asked between poor attempts to stifle her amusement.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "That railing is more shards and splinters than anything else. I landed on an especially sharp sliver half as long as my arm," he attempted to explain even though she had begun to laugh in earnest, her hand pressed to his collarbone to keep from yanking on the sutures she hadn't quite finished. "The coat and shirt are positively ruined," he moaned. "It's a mercy no one was there to witness it,"

Anne thought he should be more concerned about the state of his body than his clothing, but that was a conversation they had beaten to death years ago.

"It's gonna leave a nasty scar," she grinned as she tied the stitches off and cut the thread. Anne liked scars, especially liked them on Jack. She enjoyed being able to look at them, touch them, and know that the two of them always managed to survive.

"Darling..." the look he gave her was all heat and dark humor even though his eyes were still tight with pain. He reached up to cup the side of her face with his hand, thumb swiping gently over her cheek. He leaned in and kissed her gently, smiling when she stepped in closer to him. She had been mad earlier, when she had first found him bleeding in their cabin. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had hit him, she had certainly looked about ready for it. This had to be a good sign.

The sudden, sharp sting of her teeth biting down much too hard into his lip told him otherwise. The rough shove of fingers over the newly stitched wound only confirmed it. His breath came out in pained pants and it was all he could do to remain still.

"Pull somethin' like this again an' the fact that the doc don't wash his hands is gonna be the least of your problems," her voice was little more than a low growl as she pulled out of his grasp. With one last look at her handiwork she turned on her heel for the door. She stopped for a second, hand on the latch, and sighed, smirk curving her lips. "Fuck you, Jack,"


End file.
